


like a weakness

by jdphoenix



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hydra Jemma Simmons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-02-25 02:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2604854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grant is given the chance to rest after a mission. It's not quite so restful as he might have hoped for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in some nebulous version of canon (which I dream is the future but I'll admit is highly unlikely) where Grant and Jemma are both HYDRA agents.

HYDRA's just as much a stickler for protocol as SHIELD ever was, but Whitehall's got a soft spot for his favorite agents. That or he's playing his usual mind games, using these special favors and leniencies as a way of garnering loyalty the same way he uses that brainwashing room of his. If Whitehall's trying to buy Grant's loyalty by letting him sleep before his debriefing, Grant doesn't much care; he's been up for more than fifty hours and all he wants is a shower and his bed.

He doesn't actually _want_ the shower - he'd much rather fall straight into bed at this point - but he's kind of tracking blood through the unnervingly white halls. (He may have gotten a little overzealous back there, but then that's why he's one of HYDRA's best.)

He's got prime quarters in HYDRA's main base of operations. It's all above ground because that's how out of the shadows they are these days and Grant's rooms - that's right, _plural_ \- are on an upper floor. The altitude makes it difficult to work escape plans - he's working on number seventeen now - but the view of the mountains is excellent. The apartment's also conspicuously close to Whitehall, which Grant thinks isn't so much because of his own status but because of who he shares the space with.

Thinking of that, he's quiet when he slips through the door, allowing only the barest amount of light from the hall to break into the dark apartment. Though he knows he's leaving stains on the mat, he takes a moment to let his eyes adjust. Spending part of the morning on his knees scrubbing is well worth avoiding knocking over a misplaced chair. His stomach rumbles as he passes through the kitchen (the tile will come clean easier than the carpet), reminding him he hasn't eaten a real meal since the last time he was here, but that'll have to wait.

There's only the one bathroom, forcing him into the bedroom. The door opens and closes without a sound and he's nearly there when the blankets on the bed shift and the body underneath twists away from the window to see him.

"Hey," Jemma says, her accent particularly thick this early in the morning.

"Go back to sleep," Grant says.

She makes a huffy noise at the suggestion and flops over. He hears a sloshing and she groans as she resettles. He missed the start of that time of the month; he can't say he's sorry about that.

"My hot water bottle's gone cold, but you'll do in a pinch," she sighs.

He smiles in the dark, wishing he could take her up on it. "Can't. Gotta get cleaned up."

Her answer is a noise that's half-whine, half-question. He ignores her and heads for the bathroom.

When he flicks on the light - after the door's closed to spare her the worst of it - he sees how bad it is. There is really a horrific amount of blood. Whitehall's not squeamish but it's entirely possible he let Grant go because he genuinely didn't want to deal with him like this.

Grant's tac gear spared his clothes somewhat but they're still likely unsalvageable. He pulls them off and shoves them in his sink to soak. He catches some of the water in his hands as he waits for the sink to fill up and uses that to wipe at his face. There are still streaks of red clinging to his pores, but when he looks in the mirror he can see himself more or less clearly again.

He shuts off the sink and turns to the shower just as the bathroom door opens.

"Oh."

Grant doesn't want to know what that one word means so he pushes down his training, refusing to analyze her tone. He twists the knob to hot before he turns to face her, forcing a time limit on whatever comes next. He's not in the mood to explain this; he shouldn't have to. They both know what the other does and, as she was so fond of reminding him just a few months ago, she's well aware he's a murderer.

She looks him up and down critically, her eyes catching here and there as her mouth tightens. Then she looks to his sink and rolls her eyes.

"You'll never get the stains out that way."

She marches into the room and grabs a small, unmarked bottle from beside her sink, which is in much the same state Grant's is at the moment.

"I invented this back at the Academy. Gets out blood easily without damaging the cloth. I could have sold it for mass consumption if it weren't for SHIELD's silly rules about secrecy." A few drops of the liquid go in with his clothes. She dips her hands straight into the mess, swirling it around a few times. If she cares at all about being wrist-deep in proof of what he's been doing, she doesn't show it.

"I think they'd consider those 'silly rules' their entire reason for existing," he says.

She shoots him a fond look in the mirror and rinses her hands, then begins stripping down.

"What are you doing?" he asks, torn between amusement and annoyance.

"You need to get cleaned up before I look to your injuries and I need something to relieve my cramping. A hot shower seems just the thing, don't you think?"

He's especially thankful for his decision to turn on the shower because steam's started to fog the mirror. If he had to look at her front and back at once he'd be completely incoherent and unable to form the very important thought that she's cheating. At what, he's not sure. They're not fighting, yet he's on edge. Maybe Whitehall sent him home because he could see what Grant couldn't, that he's still in that firefight.

Still, nakedness is definitely cheating, but if he accuses her of that, he'll sound childish and also she'll know she can use nakedness again in the future. So instead he nods to the bottle in her hand.

"What do you plan on using that for?"

She smiles proudly. "It's also far more efficient at washing blood off skin than soap is _and_ it moisturizes."

She's just so happy with her concoction, it's infectious. He can't even sound seriously hurt when he says, "Is that a veiled comment about my calluses?"

"Maybe," she teases and tries to slip past him into the shower. He grabs for her without meaning to catch her. She shrieks and leaps over the step into the stall, with Grant close behind.

True to her word, Jemma washes every inch of him with her bare hands. When she makes him kneel so she can wash his hair, it's truly cruel; he can't even do anything serious to her right now. He makes her pay by kissing her stomach and breasts, and teasing the backs of her legs and ass with his fingers until she's gripping his shoulders to keep from falling.

"Do you have any idea," she pants when he finally relents, "how many people are injured by falls in showers and baths each year?"

He thinks the way her desperate gasps mix with laughter is well worth it but he can't tell her that, it's too much like admitting to a weakness. Besides, the implication that he's not in complete control of the situation is mildly insulting. He drags himself up her body, kissing his way from her naval to her throat.

"I'll catch you if you fall," he says and kisses her on the mouth.

Reluctantly, he turns off the water and steps out of the stall ahead of her. The air outside is chill and while the effect on her anatomy is decidedly positive, they both need a breather. As she steps out, he hands her a towel and takes some pride in how shaky her steps are. She sees his grin and tries to look disapproving. It only comes off as adorable.

They dry off in silence. She has her sleep clothes to climb back into but his are still soaking. Once she's fully dressed she gives him a second appraising glance. Again, her eyes catch along the way and now that he's clean he realizes she's looking at his injuries.

"March," she orders and points towards the bedroom.

"I'm fi-"

"Don't you dare lie to me, Grant Ward. Especially when it's so obvious. It's insulting." She moves her still-lifted finger and he makes a show of dragging his feet.

It's not that he minds so much being patched up - especially by Jemma, who's far better than the usual HYDRA medics - but now that there's nothing to distract him, sleep is calling him. It doesn't help that she sits him on the bed while she works on him.

He drifts off a time or two, lulled to sleep by her familiar hands working on him. He comes awake again thanks to the same. When she adds her mouth to the equation, he says her name and doesn't stop saying it until he's too lost in her to find words.

Eventually he drags himself from the bed just long enough to grab a fresh pair of boxers from the dresser. He climbs under the covers behind her and throws the hot water bottle out before clutching her tight, something she only puts up with this time of the month. With her in his arms he can finally leave the mission behind him. Maybe that's the real reason Whitehall sent him home early.

The thought leaves him cold and he wraps himself further around Jemma to ward off the chill. She's already half-asleep and turns slightly into him, making a low sound of contentment. Tired as he was only minutes ago, he should be quick to follow but - just like every night since Whitehall had them relocated here, together - he can't sleep until he's gone through each of his escape plans in his head.

He has exactly sixteen plans to escape from HYDRA if things to south. It terrifies him that every one of them involves taking Jemma with him.


	2. one month later

Grant’s had nightmares like this. The rough feel of the sheets, the temperature precisely regulated at seventy-two degrees, the faintly stale smell to the air that comes from being pumped through machinery. 

The dream hits most often just before he wakes up and he’s gotten used to having a warm body beside him to curl around and gentle words to soothe him back to sleep. Only this time there’s no body, no words, and no dream. It’s all real.

“Welcome home,” Skye says from her seat in the chair beyond the barrier. 

It’s like he never left. Not an inch of his cell has changed since the last time he was here; they’ve even got him back in the same clothes. But he knows everything’s different now.

“Where’s-” _Jemma_ “-Simmons?” he asks, hoping Skye hasn’t gotten good enough to notice the slight hesitation. 

“Far away from you,” Skye says. She’s looking at him like he’s lower than dirt and she doesn’t give him long to wonder why she’s here at all. “What’d you do to her?”

He was expecting this question. (Actually he was expecting to have a calm, collected conversation back at the cabin where he could explain everything at once. So much for hoping Coulson would go along with the plan.) Grant spreads his hands wide.

“I didn’t do anything to her.” Which, okay, is a lie. He’s done a lot of things to her over the past few months. (She especially likes it when he does things to her with his tongue.) But he’s pretty sure Skye’s not talking about those things.

“Yeah? Then why’s she still under from the _one_ ICER shot she took when you got three to the chest and you’re bright eyed and bushy tailed?”

Then this isn’t the question he was expecting. Which is good. Or not, depending on how things ultimately play upstairs.

“I need to be there when she wakes up,” he says.

Skye lets out a harsh laugh. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that. Right after you tell me what’s wrong with her.” She’s not as good as she thinks she is. She’s gripping the arms of the chair and there’s a slight tremor in her voice that gives away just how much she cares. She’s literally on the edge of her seat waiting for an answer and when he doesn’t present one, she jumps up and stomps for the stairs.

“The meds,” Grant sighs, and it’s enough to stop Skye. “It’s probably because of the medicine she’s taking.”

“ _HYDRA_ meds?”

“Over the counter meds. For pain. Ones she buys at an actual drug store.” Thinking of that he adds, “She’ll need a hot water bottle.”

Skye throws him a confused look and maybe he’s not as good as he thinks he is either. She leaves him alone and it’s all he can do not to start pacing. He knew he was risking ending up back here but it’s not an impossible situation this time. He’s still got a plan, even if this stage is the hardest by far.

Whitehall would be furious if he knew how easy it was. Iverson’s probably in for a few days of torture at the least. He was so desperate to conceal his double-dealing he’d _begged_ to do Grant a favor. And just like that Grant was free to make a run for it with Jemma while officially he was in Detroit, crossing off a former HYDRA asset who’d gone rogue.

He probably should’ve expected things at the cabin to go the way they did but how was he to know Coulson had become the shoot first and ask questions later type of guy? He rubs his chest, still feeling the sting from the impact of the ICER rounds. 

There’s nothing to do about it now except wait and he’s seriously considering revisiting his old workout routine when the door opens. He stands, expecting Skye again or maybe Coulson, but it’s not. 

“Jemma,” he sighs when she steps into the light.

“Grant!” she yells and barrels down the steps. She grabs the tablet off its stand, her grip awkward around the gun she’s holding. 

“Jemma,” Grant says again, more firmly this time. She doesn’t listen, only keeps tapping frantically at the controls and muttering to herself.

“Simmons!” _Shit_. Trip’s at the top of the stairs. And completely useless because he actually lets her get her gun trained on him without taking even a single shot himself. How are these people alive? “Drop the gun, Simmons. Come back to the lab. We’ll figure this out.”

“There’s nothing to figure out,” she says. Her hands are shaking.

“Jemma,” Grant says. He hates this, hates talking to her like she’s an unruly child, but it gets her to glance his way. “Put the gun down.”

She stares at him with wide, fearful eyes. “No. They’ve done something to you. Threatened you or hurt you.”

“Jemma.” More than anything, he hates himself. “You want to comply,” he says in carefully measured tones. “Compliance will be rewarded.”

She hesitates, fear overriding the programming, but it doesn’t last long. The gun lowers.

“Give it to Trip. Go with him. Coulson’ll be down soon to talk to me and when he’s done, maybe he’ll let you come see me again.”

Trip is frozen on the stairs, a look of horror on his face, leaving Jemma unable to fulfill her orders properly. She looks to Grant, small and afraid.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Remember what I told you last time we saw Elena?”

Elena Cruz, one of the security guards for their building and one of Jemma’s closest friends in HYDRA. Grant went to her the day before he was supposed to leave on the Detroit mission and asked that she take Jemma out to try a new special at the bakery down the street. He’d been planning on it, he said, saving it for when she really needed it, but now… And Elena understood, promised to take her for him with a smile. 

She didn’t even have time to draw her gun before Grant put a bullet in her skull. 

“Grant?” Jemma asked, a smile playing at her lips. Her friend was dead at her feet, the blood close to staining her shoes, and all Jemma cared about was that Grant was back early from his mission. 

“We have to go,” he said, twisting the silencer off the barrel of the gun and watching the mouth of the alley in case anyone happened by.

She was in his arms the second he finished, kissing him so deeply he nearly forgot why he was there at all. Reluctantly he pushed her back.

“You remember when Coulson used to take us out on wild, off-the-books missions?” 

“Of course.”

“Well this is kind of like that. We’re on a mission, an important one, and whatever happens I want you to remember, I’ve got a plan. Okay?”

And it was just that easy to get her away.

Jemma nods, remembering only the promise that he has things under control, not recognizing the betrayal. He feels sick.

Trip finally takes the gun and carefully wraps an arm around her sagging shoulders, throwing Grant murderous looks until they hit the stairs.

Grant was right. Coulson’s down in less than half an hour.

“Whatever you want to say,” Coulson says, “get it over with.”

He doesn’t sit in the chair and in return Grant makes a point of sitting on the end of the bed.

“You know,” Grant says casually, “I wanted to have this conversation back at the safe house. Beautiful views, expensive wine to soften the blow.”

“Really, now?” Coulson asks, disbelieving.

Grant smiles. “I took Trip to that safe house three years ago. You think I didn’t know you’d be monitoring it?”

“You wanted to be found.”

“Yes.”

“With Simmons.” Coulson sounds slightly more incredulous this time and Grant doesn’t blame him.

“Yes,” he says with only a little hesitation. Frankly, he’s always kind of expected this particular bit of intel to result in threats to his manhood.

“You’re sleeping with her.”

No question how Coulson figured that. There’s only one reason for a man to know when a woman’s having her time of the month. 

“I think the kids today are calling it ‘living together.’” Grant shrugs at Coulson’s stunned silence. “Whitehall likes to pamper his _favorites_.”

Coulson’s jaw ticks in annoyance. “She’s been brainwashed,” he says like even _he_ thought Grant had higher standards. “What was it, Ward? Was she a _gift_ for your good performance?”

This is never gonna work if he lies. He’s gotta play nice or they’ll never let him have an inch. So as much as he’d like to tell Coulson the same thing he’s been telling himself for months, this is the moment of truth. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. He has his suspicions, same as Coulson, but he has no proof. He has no idea if Whitehall flat-out told her to fuck him or if the same adjustment that made her stop caring about who lives and who dies wiped out all the wrongs he’s done her. All he knows is that Jemma looks at him the same way she did before the uprising, not like he’s a traitor or a weapon or Garrett’s trained dog, like he’s a _person_ and a friend.

“Do you think your ignorance absolves you?” Coulson asks, sounding like he wants nothing more than to drop the barrier and knock him out.

“Not a bit,” he says. “I’m not gonna pretend I’m the hero here because a hero wouldn’t offer what I’m going to.”

Coulson laughs. “And what’s that? Information? You think there’s anything you can say-”

“Whitehall _broke_ her,” Grant cuts in, letting just how he feels about that bleed through into his voice. “She’s like a bone that’s healed wrong and the only hope you have of fixing her, is to break her all over again.” He holds his hands wide. “We both know you don’t have it in you.”

Coulson’s arms are crossed and he’s gripping his elbows so tight he’s actually wrinkling that perfectly pressed suit. “If you think there is any chance in hell you’re getting near her again…”

“Has she tried to kill anyone yet?” Grant asks lightly. “Because she will.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a _fact_. Right now she’s under the impression we’re on a mission and she’ll play nice so long as she thinks she’s following my lead, but you cut her off from me?” Grant shakes his head. “I honestly don’t know what she’ll do, but she’s a genius with no morals so it’s probably not gonna be good. You can put her in a cell like this, tell yourself you’re _doing what’s best for her_ , but you’ll really just be letting her rot. Or you can accept my help.”

There it is, the whole play laid out on the table. Grant tries not to relax visibly but it’s tough. Months of planning, weeks of set-up, and all for the chance that _maybe_ Coulson will go along with it. All that’s left now is to wait for him to think it over.

“Why?” Coulson asks, surprising Grant. He expected Coulson to storm out at a dozen points during their conversation, but now that the conversation _should_ be over, there aren’t any plans or plays left. At least none that don’t rely on Jemma going crazy. So he shrugs and reiterates his point.

“Because I’m the only one with the balls to do it.”

Coulson actually smiles. “No. Why go to all this trouble? Why get her to the safe house you knew we’d find you at? Why bring her here at all?”

Grant knows that this, just as much as the earlier question, requires complete honesty, which is why he’s left struggling for a moment to find something true to say.

He remembers Jemma’s smile when she saw him behind the gun that murdered Elena, the same one she gives him every time he comes home safe. She always tells him about her day even though everything she’s working on is supposed to be classified. She still likes tending his wounds herself, even though HYDRA has plenty of medics more qualified. She loves him. 

He has no idea why. 

He doesn’t know if she was ordered to or if she only loves him because she was broken so badly or if it’s real. He could die any day on the job - and he came to peace with that a long time ago - but he’s been betraying Jemma every day for months, every day they‘ve been together; if he dies, she’ll be alone and he can’t do that to her on top of everything else.

Coulson’s been watching him carefully while he thinks and Grant wonders if he’s slipped and let anything show or even, if he did, if Coulson would believe what he saw.

“I can’t protect her,” Grant says finally. “I’ve got places all over the world, all of them defensible, and some of them even with the facilities necessary to … to help her. But I can’t do both.”

What Coulson thinks of that, Grant can’t tell. He just walks away, out of the Vault, leaving Grant alone to wait on his decision. If he’s honest with himself, he hopes Coulson says no. That’ll leave Grant trapped down here, probably doom Jemma to a similar fate eventually, but at least it means he won’t have to hurt her.

He does end up going through his old workout routine and then, when the hours grow too long, lays down in bed for some sleep.

The barrier dropping wakes him. It’s back up before he can get out of bed, but Jemma’s here, on this side of it. 

She runs to him and before he can catch her up, she’s putting her hands everywhere in search of injury.

“I’m fine,” he soothes, catching her hands to stop her, “I’m fine. They used an ICER.”

Trusting, always so damn trusting of him, she curls into his chest and holds him close. He slides his hands up and down her back and meets Coulson’s eyes over her shoulder. He’s giving them a dark look, like he’s already regretting this.

“You start tomorrow,” he says and turns the barrier opaque. 

Jemma takes a peek out from under his arms and, seeing they’re cut off, looks to him. “You have a plan, right?” she asks.

He should feel bad that she’s so afraid but this is good news. She’s questioning him. The programming isn’t as strong as it should be, which will make his work tomorrow - not _easier,_ but not as difficult as it could be.

“Always,” he says with a kiss to her forehead. “Are you hurt?” he asks then, because as much as he knows they wouldn’t want to, they still might have had to.

She shakes her head. He decides to take her word for it and leads her to the bed. He’d like one last night with her but she’s frightened and exhausted and they’ll both need their rest for tomorrow. He curls around her, feeling the frantic beat of her heart ease and her breath even out. She clutches his arms around her, even in her sleep.

When he finally lets himself drift off, it’s with the knowledge that she’ll still be here when he wakes, chasing one last nightmare away for him. He only hopes he can return the favor tomorrow.

 


End file.
